


In The End

by horatiofrog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, the pool, what happened between Baker Street and the Pool?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horatiofrog/pseuds/horatiofrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might have happened in the hours between the retrieval of the Bruce Partington Plans and the incident at the Pool?  Here's one theory...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The End

**Author's Note:**

> Back before we knew what the outcome of the Pool incident was, _everyone_ had a theory of what might have happened to John in the interim between leaving Baker Street and Sherlock's discovery at the Pool. Here was mine.

_In the end,_ he thought as he stepped out onto the pool deck, facing his flatmate and best friend, _I really should have seen this coming._

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a good day, Sarah's flat was a clear trek across half of London. Certainly not something John couldn't handle, but it had been a trying week, with the flat blowing up and the bomber's seemingly endless puzzles that required so much… _legwork,_ as Mycroft Holmes so irritatingly put it. By the time he and Sherlock had recovered the missile plans, John was all in for a quiet evening. Even an adrenalin junkie needed time to breathe occasionally.

_I'll take a cab,_ he decided. _Wouldn't want to get to Sarah's just to kip on the sofa again from exhaustion._

Decision made, he exited the front of the building and was pleasantly surprised to see several of his chosen methods of transport waiting. It had been ridiculous that last few days to even get a cab, what with the explosion sending half a flat block into the street and the endless clearing up and repairs. He settled into the one closest to the door, gave the cabbie Sarah's address, and began to think about the events of the last several days.

The car twisted and turned through the serpentine streets of London proper, a dizzying maze of cutoffs and one-ways that made John's mind boggle a bit at how Sherlock could keep them all straight in his head. On the eighth turn, however…

"Ah, sorry," he said, trying not to sound as on edge as he felt. "I think we've missed a turn."

"No," the cabbie replied. He rattled off the address John had given him.

"Yeah, that's the address," John confirmed. "But we're going south."

"I forgot, mate," the cabbie apologized. "Got a call to make one pick-up. Clear forgot about it until we made that last turn. Won't be a minute, and I won't charge for it."

The knot in John's stomach began to tighten. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be planning to shove pills down my throat, would you?"

"Come again?"

John sighed. "All right. Fine."

"Thanks. Not terribly far, right up here…"

The cab slowed in front of an ordinary looking building where three men were standing. The crispness of their suits made John wonder if they were mannequins for a shop. They almost looked too new.

"You called about the cab?" the cabbie called over, stepping out of the driver's seat.

John could see the threesome walk over to the cabbie, witnessed the brief exchange between the men. He then saw the cabbie drop to the empty street like a broken rag doll.

_Oh, Christ…_

As quickly as the cabbie fell, the three men in too-new suits took to the cab: the stoutest of them in the driver's seat while the two John quickly dubbed Tall and Short took to the backseat. He didn't like the way the pair were regarding him, as though they knew something he didn't.

"Look," he said, fighting to keep his voice even. _Wouldn't do to snap at them and have God-knows-what befall me for my trouble._ "For all I know, that man died of a ruptured aneurysm in the brain. Could happen to anyone."

"Likely that's what happened."

"Oh, well, good then," John said, releasing a breath as he spoke. "Still on my game, then. If you'd like to drop me here, I'm certain I can find my way…"

Tall chuckled. "On his game. That's clever."

"Right, well, like I said, I'll be getting off now."

Short shook his head. "Our apologies, Doctor Watson," he said, drawling the words out a bit. "But I'm afraid there's a meeting we've been…requested…that you attend."

_Oh, bloody hell._ John did not like where this was going. Then his mind swam back a bit, to Joe Harrison's flat earlier that afternoon:

_"Five pips, John. We've only had four."_

"Five pips," he breathed. Both Tall and Short's flickering reaction cemented the theory into proof.

John took stock of the cab. Tall was sitting at one end, near the door, the handle within easy reach. Short had stationed himself near the opposite door, facing John; he too was a little too round for his frame. Taking a breath, John let his mind wander the possibilities of trying to force the doors of his makeshift cell. Of all the bloody days to leave the gun at home…

"I wouldn't, Doctor," Tall said, as though he were reading John's mind.

"Really?"

"This can go one of two ways: as an ordinary cab ride or as something much more unpleasant." The look in Tall's eyes said _the choice is up to you._

Something else flittered through John's mind; months of drill and army training. Among the obvious ones: _Always keep your service weapon clean and oiled, take face value in enemy territory with a grain of salt._ Most importantly: _escape is always the goal when captured by an enemy._

Thankfully, his leg had improved immensely; though it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd made out when he first came home, it had been broken in two places falling over the steps when he got off the plane from Afghanistan. He'd even heard some remark about tripping over his own feet or some such at the time. The physio had helped, plus the constant running all over London following Sherlock on one case or another. Only last week his PT had told him to continue with his outside regimen; the thought brought a smile to John's lips.

"Something amusing?" Short asked.

John's eyes lifted, taking in his cabmates' positions and dimensions. The car began to slow, stopping at a stop sign on an empty corner. Lightening-fast reflexes earned John an open door; quick thinking allowed him a few steps outside of it. Short was still out of breath, doubled over with the punch to the solar plexus that still stung John's hand a bit.

Unfortunately, Stout was quicker than he looked. More unfortunately, he was well-armed, with two pistols in each hand.

The sound of one man clapping caught John's attention. Spinning on his heel, ignoring the training to _always face the gun, always face the gun to determine the next move,_ he saw Tall giving him a rather half-hearted round of applause. "My employer rather thought this might happen, Doctor," he replied before pulling out a weapon of his own. "Now, if I understand it right, the probability of you disarming one hand is good; the probability of you disarming both hands at once is considerably less."

_And three…well, I must have missed that lesson during basic._ John glared at Tall, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. Panic would lead to nowhere fast.

Tall's head tipped towards the cab. "In you go. If you don't mind."

"I mind very much. Where are you taking me?"

"Alas, I am not within bounds to reveal that. My employer would be most displeased."

"Poor sod." The bite in John's voice was hard to miss.

"Once more, Doctor: will you get inside the car willingly or…?" When John remained motionless, Tall's nose twitched slightly, as though the thought of another method put him off a bit. "I had hoped, for my employer's sake, that this matter could be handled delicately."

A tip of his head, and Tall's compatriot Stout had shoved John to the floor of the cab. "You'll need this," he croaked, crushing his knee into John's back as he reached to give something to Tall. Short, who had shifted to the left of the cab, did his part by immediately holding the muzzle of his own weapon to the back of John's head.

"Won't miss, mate," Short hissed. "Give you something to remember me by…"

"Not irreparably harmed, if you please," Tall called inside. "He's still worth something."

_Yeah, worth a lot as a bloody pawn in a psychotic game of puzzles and plastic explosives,_ John thought angrily. _Can't wait to see what Sherlock'll have to do this time._

Once he was certain his objective was not badly compromised, Tall resumed his place inside the back of the cab, his feet pushed a little too forcefully into the doctor's back. "I did warn you, Doctor," he said by way of an apology. "Now, in case you were thinking of another method, I must warn you: my friend near your head is in a right state with you at the moment; tends to get that way when people discomfort him. He has his orders as well, but there are so many ways to…erm… 'color outside the lines'?"

The muzzle perched on John's head shifted a bit downward near his right shoulder. "Could make me a matching set," Short hissed again, clearly enjoying his newly gained advantage.

_Brilliant._

The cab sped off without incident.

\-----------------

By John's count, an hour had passed. He wasn't checking time to see where he was being taken—that possibility had died with the wrong turn by the original cabbie—but to figure out how far from his flat he might be. When John had left, it was almost time for tea; the cab ride up until the appearance of the three lackeys had taken nearly twenty minutes. At best guess, he figured about ten before all bloody hell had sprung loose. The floor of the cab had grown considerably darker, and he hadn't heard the sounds of doors rising or opening.

His heart sank. Night had fallen. By now, Sarah had to be frantic.

Suddenly the cab halted to a stop. "We're here," Tall said, an irritating lilt to his voice. To his compatriots, he said, "Help Doctor Watson up. I'm sure he'll need to orient himself to standing for a bit."

_Terrific. Now what?_ The thought of being forced to stand in one place for hours on end, as the young Londoner had been during the Monkford puzzle, was not a situation John was welcome to accept. _Especially in this cold…terrible for my shoulder, and my leg, barometers that they've become…_

"What is this place?" John asked.

"Everything will be answered shortly. Come, this way." Tall flicked his fingers together, and soon John found himself being almost frog-marched into the dark cement building, firm grips on either of his guards. A brief look before he was forced inside the front door showed John a shadow moving quickly across the roof. Had Sherlock come? Or was it…?

"Come," Tall said sternly. "We've no time to lag. My employer is most keen to have a few words with you."

"Tell him he can come out and have them now, if he likes," John said quietly, the irresistible urge to snark a little just too tempting. "Why the smoke and mirrors?"

Tall tipped his head. "Ours is not to reason why."

"And we know how that turned out." Still quiet, still calm. John could feel his heart racing so fast it could outstrip a pony, but the calm façade would keep all tensions—including his own—at bay.

"Quite." Tall continued leading the absurd party of muscle and hostage around a labyrinth of hallways and locker stalls, only to stop at a bay with a long bench and a shower. "In here," he said, tipping his head in that infernal short movement that was really beginning to irritate John to no end. "Third one on the right. Shower first."

"I'm fine."

"I'm afraid it is a requirement. Shower."

John stiffened his legs, settling his full weight on his arches. "No."

"Pity." Tall turned toward the bay door. "I'm afraid your friend will have to suffer the consequences."

_No. No. They didn't. They couldn't…Sherlock…how?_

As Tall's heels disappeared from the threshold, John called out, "All right! All right."

Tall's head reappeared. "The soap's in with the rest. We don't have a lot of time." With that, the man was gone, leaving John alone.

He stood a full minute, listening to the sounds around him. There were no footsteps; there were no hushed words, no sounds of breathing. John bit his lip. Could this really be that easy?

Something wasn't right about this. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

_Now or never, right?_

John took a breath, released it slowly, and then took careful steps towards the bay entrance. Just a few meters more…just a step…

The bullet ricocheted off the porcelain tile, exploding into the wall just three centimeters from John's head. "Ah, ah," he heard Tall cluck with disappointment. "Really, Doctor Watson, did you honestly think you were alone?"

_Bloody hell._

"The shower. Or do we have to watch?"

The shudder that crawled down John Watson's spine could have resembled a tidal wave crashing into the Atlantic. Gathering his courage, and praying _dear God they'd better not be watching_ , John stood up to the shower head and turned the water on, reaching dumbly for the edge of his sweater.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now clean and pressed and in some remarkably well-fitting clothes, John stood at the edge of the bay's threshold.

"Ah, well done," Tall said. "Come, this way. There's just a couple more items…"

"Am I going to meet this 'employer' of yours?" John asked, unable to hide the frustration in his voice. _For being a puzzle for Sherlock, it seems like I'm the one jumping through all the hoops._

"In time. You'll hear him, though, in a bit."

_Oh. Well. That's comforting. I'll get to hear the git going off in my head_ —John shuddered— _just like the old woman from Yorkshire in those flats. Brilliant. At least it's warm in here, and I'm not freezing to death like that poor kid…_

The three lackeys turned John into another locker bay—this time with only a bench—that sat close to the entrance to a pool. Before he could register what was happening, he could feel something shoved into his ear.

"Well, well," an icy voice said. The tone alone gave John shivers. "How kind of you to join us, Doctor Watson."

"Not like I had a bloody choice," John snapped, turning his head for a sight of his tormentor.

"Oh, no, my dear," the icy voice continued. "You did have a choice."

"Did I?" John reached for the object in his ear but was stopped when Short grabbed his wrist. Within seconds, he felt something being shoved over his shoulders—a further look told John that it was a vest. Short was wrenching John's remodeled shoulder so hard that it took everything he had not to scream out in agony. The pain was so blinding that when it stopped, the men had long since left, leaving John cradling his shoulder and trying not to touch any of the wires and bricks of plastic explosive immaculately positioned over his chest. The unsightly parka sitting over the explosives wasn't helping matters.

"Yes," the icy voice replied. "You could have chosen not to have Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate. You could have chosen safe and _boring._ " The word boring was drawn out as long as it could be, almost in a singsong quality. "But that would have been dull. And obvious. And in a way, your decision couldn't have worked out better for everyone involved."

"I'm glad you approve," John said bitingly. He hated that he was being put in this position, that he was putting Sherlock in the position of having to come and save him…again. "Should I run it by you next time I go out on a date as well?"

The chuckle that rang through John's ears was like nothing he'd ever heard before. It positively dripped with sarcasm and evil. "Clever, Doctor Watson, very clever. It is good to know Sherlock has picked so well, despite the obvious differences. Not his fault, really—there are so few of us on his level."

"Right, right," John said, his nerves now beginning to take over. "I'm an idiot, like he doesn't tell me that enough." _Not lately, though. I mean, there's about three people working on Sherlock's wavelength—his brother being one of them—but I think I can hold my own. At least, Sherlock hasn't lumped me in with the likes of Donovan and Anderson. Perhaps with Lestrade; yeah, I could see that. Not Sherlock's speed, of course, but not a complete idiot either._

"Oh, don't be modest, doctor—you do have some useful qualities of your own," the voice continued. "I daresay without someone like you around our poor Sherlock would have starved to death within a month, or done something much worse…."

_Right. The 'drugs bust.' Like I'm going to admit that to this nutter._ John remembered the conversation he'd had with his flatmate the day after that incident: when asked, Sherlock had admitted using on occasion _"but not in at least the last four or five years. Lestrade may not observe, but…I have learned something from him. Company makes for a more stimulating experience, in my opinion."_

"….and then there's those godawful risks he takes…" The voice chattered on as though John hadn't been mentally sidetracked. "Just like my first little puzzle, the one where he met you…well, that turned out all right, I suppose…"

John remembered. The cabbie, the pills, Sherlock contemplating taking the damned pill, "MORIARTY…!"

_Well, well. Glad to finally meet you, Mr. Moriarty._

"Figured it out, have you?"

"Yes." The word came as a strangled bark. John could hear footsteps echoing on the tile of the pool deck behind the wall.

"I've brought you a little 'getting to know you' present," he heard Sherlock's voice call out, loud and clear.

_So has Moriarty,_ John thought bitterly. The urge to wince at his still throbbing shoulder was hard to quash.

"Well now," the icy voice clipped, "you know the drill. Exactly as I say, not one deviance. Unless you fancy the idea of becoming fireworks."

_I don't._

"Go on, then," Moriarty hissed, almost cooing in John's ear. "Can't keep him waiting…that'd spoil the surprise."


End file.
